A week before training camp began, he left a note on the refrigerator that I found when I got home, with instructions to go to a party at a restaurant on the Biscayne Bay. So he was home and left without me, I thought. The house was extremely clean, probably the cleanest I’d ever seen it. There’s no way he did this himself. He got a cleaning service and didn’t even tell me.

He made me go through traffic on a Friday night to meet him at this restaurant, and all I could think about were the horrible things he said to me that morning, after another round of tennis. He’d thrown his racket again, and this time, it broke. He threw it into the trash can and stormed off the court, shouting at me as he made his way to the Corvette. A boy in high school once said those t...